


Dear Mr Potter / Dear Malfoy

by pangodillO, scarlet_malfoy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Epistolary, M/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:28:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23121028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pangodillO/pseuds/pangodillO, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlet_malfoy/pseuds/scarlet_malfoy
Summary: If ever there arises some way for me to repay some fraction of the debt we owe you, you will be able to reach me for the foreseeable future here at this old family house of my mother's.Ever in your debt,Draco Malfoy
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 9
Kudos: 77





	1. Dear Mr Potter,

**Author's Note:**

> And so we return to our roots. Draco Malfoy chapters are by pangodillO, and Harry Potter chapters are by scarlet_malfoy. We have made no plans and neither of us knows what will be in a letter until the other has posted it. So I shall send the AO3 owl off with this first letter, and let us see what reply I receive!
> 
> Tags/warnings will be expanded as we discover the story we're telling, and I make no promises that the rating either will or will not stay where it currently is.

August 23, 1998  
Château Delanoir, Loire Valley, France 

Dear Mr Potter, 

I apologize for intruding myself on your attention once more. Be assured that I shall endeavor to take up as little as possible of your time with this missive, although what remains of my family's honor demands that it be written.

I write to thank you for your efforts on my mother's behalf and on my own. We neither of us had any expectation of seeing you at our trials; the evidence against us was strong enough to satisfy the Wizengamot's desire for a public eradication of Death Eater sentiment. Certainly we never imagined that you would appear to testify in favor of our acquittal; and then, in my case, in favor of leniency when acquittal was impossible. You had much to do, and my mind still boggles that you were willing—that you wanted, you insisted on coming to our defense. I do not ask you why; I write with no expectation of a reply. I simply cannot allow the depths of my gratitude to remain unknown. Perhaps what you did for us means little to you, but it means the world to us. We owe you our freedom. More than freedom, we owe you our dignity. Even my father owes you a debt of gratitude, for the work you and Ms Granger did in removing the Dementors from Azkaban. Please, if it seems appropriate to your judgment, pass my thanks on to Ms Granger as well; it is a great comfort to my mother to know that he is not held by those creatures, and a great comfort to me to think that she may visit him. I am not sure I would if I could, but I am spared that decision by the fact of my exile. 

But I have digressed from my purpose, and I did promise to take up no more than necessary of your time. If ever there arises some way for me to repay some fraction of the debt we owe you, you will be able to reach me for the foreseeable future here at this old family house of my mother's.

Ever in your debt,  
Draco Malfoy


	2. Malfoy,

August 29th, 1998  
Puffin Hostel, Vík í Mýrdal, South Iceland

Malfoy, 

First of all, I’m stunned at the fact that your eagle owl found me here, and somehow made a transatlantic flight? I can’t fathom it. Maybe there’s something I don’t know about eagle owls’ stamina. I’m not too familiar with them. Anyways, I’ve insisted he rest here with me for a day or two before he makes the return journey. He’s very sweet, if a little demanding in the treat department. He rather likes fermented shark, just a side note!

Second of all, please don’t go shouting from the rooftops that I’m here in Iceland. I’m not exactly in hiding, the people who matter know where I am, but I just needed the break. Iceland seemed remote enough a place when I was looking through the brochures at the international portkey station. I haven’t been recognized yet, at any rate. For a land with such intrinsic, relatively new and powerful magic at its core, it’s mostly muggle-inhabited, as far as I can tell. Your worst nightmare, I’m sure. 

Third of all, don’t apologize so much, and there’s no need to thank me. You don’t owe me anything. You saved all our lives that time at your house. Maybe you didn’t realize it, or mean it. I mean, I spoke at the trials, but it’s all kind of a blur. Everything is from that time. I’m not sure exactly what I said, but I’m glad it made a difference for you. Because it’s true, if you had told them that it was us... me... then we’d be dead. And a lot more people, besides. 

And you weren’t there for your mum’s trial, seeing as hers was before yours, and I’m not sure how much she’s told you about what happened during the battle in the forest. I’ll let her fill you in on the details, if she wants. But if she hadn’t lied to Voldemort’s face, we never would have won. The world owes a debt to you both, if anything. 

Of course I spoke at the trials. Yours, and dozens and dozens of others. It was no hardship to speak the truth. Somehow I was in possension of the truth when no one else was, I could prove it to the Wizengamot in the Pensieve. I was the only one who could save you and your mum from losing years of your life in Azkaban unnecessarily. Anyone would have done the same. 

I’m glad you’re all doing as well as you are, and that you have your dignity. Even Lucius. Dementors are ridiculous and have no place near people, but neither did it seem right to just exterminate them or whatever, you know? Hermione’s experiments with volcanism and the creation of Grey Island for them was genius. I’ll get your thanks to her in the next letter I send. She was here in Iceland last week doing more research on the latent magical properties of volcanoes or something, under the pretense of visiting me. (In fact that is probably why she handed me the Iceland brochure that day at the Portkey office in the first place. Haha, I’ve been played.) It really is super interesting though, she thinks Katla is going to blow sometime soon, within the next five years, definitely. I hope I’m still here for it, for whatever reason. Extreme catharsis? I don’t know. 

I’m sorry this is so long. I don’t really get a lot of post, and there’s no one here to really talk to. Which is what I came here for, of course. 

I’m a little ashamed to admit, I don’t know how long you’re exiled for. I don’t get any papers or news here. I hope it’s not forever. I’m not surprised your family has a convenient extra house for you to live in, though. Is it nice there? You don’t have to reply, of course. 

Without debts owed or expected,  
Harry P.


	3. Potter,

Potter, 

I hope you won't be offended if I relax and match your level of formality. 

I'll address this first, so as not to make you wait: I have no intention of telling anyone where to find you. Even if anyone were inclined to listen to me, it would be a fine way to thank you, ratting you out to Witch Weekly or whoever else. 

I'm stunned to hear that Ulysses made it all the way to you in Iceland! If I'd known he had to go farther than across the Channel, I'd have hired a transcontinental goose—as I intend to do with this letter. Ulysses is getting older and shouldn't be making such a trip regularly, no matter how much fermented shark waits for him at the end. Thank you for being kind to him; he was my mother's before he was mine. 

My nightmares are populated with much worse things than Muggles. As are yours, I can only imagine. Let's not talk about it. 

Similarly, I won't dwell any longer on the trials, except to say that I don't believe that "anyone would have done the same". In fact, I believe that no one but you would have done what you did—and if you'd asked me before you did it, I'd have said that you certainly wouldn't have done it, either. I'm not being obsequious when I thank you; what you did for us is incomprehensible. 

My exile is permanent, at least for now; I may appeal it after seven years. If I appeal, my exile may (at the Wizengamot's discretion) be annulled, truncated, considered served, or upheld. In the latter case, a second appeal will be possible after another three years. My mother, of course, is free to enter and leave the country as she wishes. She's here with me partly out of familial duty, and partly to avoid the current unpleasant social situation at home. Well, and because the Ministry confiscated all the family property within its borders. This house escaped by being in my mother's name—it was part of her inheritance from her family—as well as being on foreign land. 

It is lovely here. We've been coming here in the summer since I was a child. The grounds are exquisite. My room overlooks the formal garden. It sounds stuffy but in the spring it's a riot of color and scent. I used to run and play in them for hours, all by myself. The parlor overlooks the vineyards, and the Loire River beyond them. This is excellent wine country, with several award-winning wineries and vineyards, almost within walking distance. 

Although, if I may share a secret with you, I don't particularly enjoy wine. My father allowed me to try some as a child and I found it deeply unpleasant. Very disappointing, after how pretty it was in his glass. Not that my distaste for wine can tarnish our name any further. Funny, how I still care about these small shameful secrets, when the most shameful possible secret has already been exposed. 

Forgive me, I've grown maudlin. I have little excuse, except that I have few correspondents these days. Instead of signing off on a sour note, let me ask you a question: What are you doing in Iceland? Don't tell me why you're in Iceland, what I mean is—what do you do there? How do you pass your days? Pleasantly, I hope. Not that you need to answer, but you asked me a question and now this feels less like a simple thank-you and more like, well, a conversation. 

Have we ever had a conversation before? 

Cordially yours,  
Draco Malfoy


	4. Malfoy,

Malfoy,

It's a relief to not have to figure out the date again for the header on this accidental missive. I'm trying not to think about things like the date right now. Then I do weird silly things in my brain, like calculate how many month and days it's been since the end. The Battle of Hogwarts, they are calling it now. 

Your exile will NOT be permanent. Not if I have anything to say about it. It's completely bonkers, after all the truth they dug around in my brain for. After all the Veritaserum they forced you to take. What more could they want? Kingsley is only acting minister currently, but he still has all the sway. I can put this in motion if you would like. As well as seeing about unconfiscating your other properties. Hermione's here visiting again, and she's demanded that I ask you first to make sure that's what you actually want. (I relayed your thanks - she's more than happy to have helped with the Dementors.)

Your mother's family home sounds great. I imagine it must be nice being someplace untouched by the war, as well as someplace where you have all kinds of happy childhood memories. If I had an equivalent place, I'd be there. 

I'm not big on wine, myself. I don't think alcohol in general is good for me right now. I had a few pints with Hermione last night, and that was all well and good, but mostly I'm here on my own, and apparently I'm a maudlin drunk when left to my own devices. Fun fact: alcohol was illegal here in Iceland til about 10 years ago. The local nightlife in the bigger town of Reykjavik, about an hour's drive from here, is a little over the top. It's like they're still making up for lost partying time. I can't say I relate or understand. Best I just avoid it. 

Answering your question about what I'm doing in Iceland is more difficult than I would have imagined. I have my own single room at the hostel, which is an historic century-old bed and breakfast type place, and less the overrun hostel full of near penniless youth one might imagine. The building has the usual large metal sheet siding that most buildings in Iceland need to protect it from the bitter winter winds. It's not ugly at all somehow. Nothing that efficient could be ugly, in my opinion. 

What do I DO though. Well. Every morning, I wake up and have a cup of instant coffee, and do my share in cooking breakfast in the communal kitchen with whichever guests happen to have stayed the night before. It's always a different assortment of people, and it's always interesting, learning about where some complete stranger has been, where they are from. I'm going by the name Henry, and I have to say, it's very different relating to people here. Different in a way I don't think I've ever experienced before. I went from no one wanting to talk to me or take any interest in me, to having the entire bleeding world overly concerned about every aspect of my life... to just... being a normal bloke, all of sudden. No one bats an eye when I tell them my scar is from a car crash. No one thinks twice. I don't really know what to do with such normalcy, I guess, because as soon as breakfast is over, I hightail it out of there and start my usual daily walk. 

It's more of an exploration, really. The wilderness here is so vast and ever changing, it never gets boring or repetitive. The hostel in Vik is a 10 minute walk to the black sand beaches of Reynisfjara. If the current isn't too strong and it isn't too cold and windy (not often) I'll walk barefoot through the water, which always feels as cold as ice, in a refreshing way. If the weather is cool and somewhat sunny (the best one can hope for) I'll hike to the top of several different high hills to get a better view of the coastline, the black beaches stretching farther than I'd care to walk in a day. And I say hills, but really, they are incredible, rocky, mountain-like cliffs that seabirds call home. Some of them extend out into the sea a ways, and the waves beat angrily up into the crevices, nearly close enough to touch. 

It's wild here, untamed. But safe enough if one takes the proper precautions. It reminds me a bit of the Forbidden Forest. And there's a cave here, not a proper cave because it doesn't extend very far inwards, but it reminds me of a place Dumbledore took me to once last year. That was a horrible experience, but this place is on the opposite end of the spectrum of caves. Tourists are here, laughing and awestruck and safe, and I can... process, or whatever. 

Something else I'm doing is thinking of Dumbledore an awful lot. Not missing him, or mourning him, because I've done enough of that, but just thinking through what his actual thought processes must have been, in real time. I can't discuss this with Ron or Hermione or anyone else, because for them, it hasn't been enough time. They can't imagine him in any other way but as a saintly old man who somehow saved us all with his overarching, far-reaching quickwittedness, even from beyond the grave. 

But I feel lately that he sent me to live with my Aunt and Uncle as an infant, knowing full well what that would be like for me. He allowed those events to shape me into the man he hoped I would become: one who loved the magic of the wizarding world in a far more acute and aching sort of way than the average wizard, and who treasured it for saving me and who would do anything to protect it. I feel that he made me. I'm angry about it, as you can imagine. I resent the loss of essentially a whole entire life of choices. 

No, Malfoy. I can't say that we've ever had an actual conversation before, unless you count that robe shop encounter when we were 11, and we didn't know who the other person was. Do these letters count as conversations? 

-Harry

PS  
I've enclosed some kæstur hákarl, or fermented shark, for Ulysses. 

PPS  
I'm not only taking sad walks. I'm also spending some time learning how to ride and care for Icelandic horses. The owner of the hostel has a barn full of them that guests can rent. Lots of them are returning from their yearly trot around the whole of Iceland. Some locals spend their entire summer every year just... riding around the country, while the weather is relatively nice. Another fun fact: once an Icelandic horse leaves the country, whether it's been bought or whatever, it can never return, because it may have regular horse diseases or be pregnant with some other type of horse's baby. Icelandic horses: like Purebloods? Except not at all, because they are lovely innocent horses.


	5. Potter,

September 9, 1998

Potter, 

Absolutely not! I don't even know if I'm going to appeal, when the opportunity comes. What is there for me to go back to? The Manor is gone, my friends are in prison or exile like myself, my mother is here with me, and the number of British wizards who don't look at me and see my father, see the Dark Lord's right hand, I could count on one hand. Anyway, I couldn't bear to be any more in your debt than I already am. Thank you, but no. 

Ulysses thanks you for the fermented shark. He was rather miffed with me when I sent a letter to you without him, but the shark treats have appeased him—somewhat. He must like you; even with the shark, he still hasn't entirely forgiven me.

Dating your letters has a purpose, Potter. How are archivists or historians to know when a letter was written if you don't date it? Or, for that matter, friends? Do you never browse nostalgically through your old correspondence and wonder when a given letter was received? I certainly don't, because my letters all have dates on them; when I nostalgically browse my old correspondence, I know exactly when they were written. I've taken the liberty, therefore, of guessing the date of your last. Your turnaround was rather quick, so I've estimated it to have been September 7th.

I suppose that means classes have started at Hogwarts. Unless they're still rebuilding? I haven't kept up with the news from home. Have you? If I'd thought about it, I'd have expected you and your friends to have gone back for your NEWTs. If I were confident that I was right about that, I might then reason that Hogwarts is not open, but I'm not confident. I don't think I've ever been right, when it comes to you. For instance, I would never have guessed that you could cook. Or that you would retreat from your adoring public to hide away where no one knows your name or what you've done. On rereading, that sounds mocking. I don't mean it that way. Rather, I mean to mock myself. There's not much I haven't been wrong about.

Yes, I think this counts as a conversation. At least I hope it does, or else the only conversations I'm having are with my mum over what to have for tea. I'm trying to be lighthearted and it keeps getting depressing. I mean to say, I'm enjoying this conversation with you. 

September 12, 1998

And I thought I'd be able to match your quick turnaround. (There's another use for dating your letters.) I keep rereading your last and not knowing how to answer. I was never close to Dumbledore in the same way you were. I held a very different opinion of him than you and your friends... although perhaps now they're more similar. I can certainly see him designing a person's childhood to forge them into the role he wants them to fill. I'd be angry too if I thought I'd been manipulated in that way. I am angry. At the same time, I made my choices, and I can't blame anyone else for them. Do you regret the choices you've made? Do you regret the person you've become? I find that hard to imagine of you. 

Yours,  
Draco Malfoy


	6. Malfoy,

September 14th, 1998 (there, are you pleased? also, your second letter, which I have here in my hands, has NO DATE. What's that about, then? How ever will the historical scholars make sense of our correspondence?)

Malfoy,

I must warn you, I am quite drunksy. If you are wondering what drunksy means, it's somewhere in between tipsy and drunk. I couldn't hold this quill if I were drunk. An American tourist named Andrew who is here for a week and has become a quick friend coined the term. I laughed overly hard at the use of it, which is how I know I'm at least tipsy. 

I have to admit, I'm upset that you won't allow me to help regarding your exile. Of course I won't interfere if that's your wish. I just don't think it's very fair. You aren't an evil person. Even back in school, I didn't think you were. You were mean, but I was mean to you, too. You were ignorant, but so was I. We were children. You don't know this, but I was there on the astronomy tower with you and Snape and Dumbledore that night. (I was under my invisibility cloak, and also petrificus totalas'd, thanks Dumbledore.) Sorry, I know that that might seem like an imposition on your own memory or experiences. To know that I was just secretly there. Actually nevermind, I forgot that you became aware of that during your trial. Gosh okay, moving on. 

Yes, classes have started at Hogwarts. I've been in touch with McGonagal a bit, she badly wanted us all to return for an eighth year of some sort. If enough of us from our year returned, so had planned to create an extra eighth year house and dorm. I wouldn't have liked not living in Gryffindor tower, I don't think. Just as I don't imagine you being the biggest fan of not living in the Slytherin dorm. Oh my god, do you remember in second year when Crabbe and Goyle were found passed out in a closet with half finished sweets? Ron and I polyjuiced into them and talked to you in the Slytherin dorm to find out if you were the heir of Slytherin. Oh my god, how terrible. There are so many things I can't believe we actually did. I am laughing so hard. 

On this end of the war, I just couldn't go back. Of course, more than anything, I want another year at Hogwarts, a normal year for once. But I'm not a child any longer. It wouldn't feel normal, it would feel wrong. I'd feel overgrown. I don't plan on doing anything that requires NEWTs, so whatever. McGonagal wants me to take some correspondence courses so that I can be her next DADA professor, but GOD. Other than becoming an Auror, which, NO, can you imagine anything more cliche for Harry Potter to be doing? 

Yes, you've been wrong about a lot regarding me. I can cook because I was forced to cook for my aunt, uncle, and cousin as a child. Until shortly before Hogwarts, I slept in the cupboard under their stairs. I was never hit or anything, but I wasn't cared for or considered. And you've been ESPECIALLY wrong about me enjoying having any sort of "adoring" public. There's nothing I despise more in the universe than not being free to be myself without everyone else in the fucking world having an opinion. 

Like what just happened with Andrew the American Muggle before I came in to write you this letter. I can't believe I'm about to tell you about this, but, I'm drunksy, I've started, I've got to. And weirdly, I want to tell you. 

We were taking an evening walk around the beach, drinking Icelandic beer, and he grabbed my hand and pulled me close to him, and he KISSED me on the MOUTH. I ran away, and fell several time in the dark in the black sand and may have then tripped over a stray sheep in the yard outside the hostel, but once I was alone in my room, I realized I didn't mind the kiss. And felt like a drunksy idiot. 

What would the wizarding world think if Harry Potter was gay? Do you think they'd "adore" me still? I doubt it. 

Do I regret the choices I've made? I can't be sure. Maybe turning a certain way down the corridors during the final battle, I would have been able to save Fred, or Remus or Tonks. Maybe I could have fit a third person on the broomstick in the Room of Requirement. But how can I know? How could I have known. What if I had grabbed your hand in Malfoy Manor when Dobby Apparated us all, and gotten you out, too? Gotten my arm stuck with the knife that instead went through Dobby and killed him? Maybe if I'd done anything else in any of those circimstsances, someone else would have died. 

I don't really know who I am, Malfoy. This is the first chance I've had without external threat of death, to try and figure that out. I might be gay. Would you still write to me, if that were the case? 

Yours too,  
Harry


	7. [no salutation]

September 5, 1998  
Chateau Delanoir, Loire Valley, France

* * *

September 16, 1998

The indignation! The absolute absurdity! To accuse me—ME—of failing to date my letters! And just when I thought we were beginning to be friend ~~s~~ ly. You wound me, Potter, and at this most vulnerable time in my life—wait. What's this?

...ah.

Please find enclosed the parchment on which I _began_ to write you, nearly two weeks ago, only to be called away to my mother. Upon returning I seem to have written the _contents_ of that letter on another sheet entirely. Thus was the letter separated from its date. What is it the Americans say, "my bad"? Please, if you would, reunite this lost and lonesome date with its letter; when the historians get hold of your correspondence, they'll thank you.

On the further subject of Americans, or at least one particular American, I advise you (if you haven't already) to talk to the bloke—or, what's the term, "dude"?. Be honest, explain what happened, and offer to try again. Shagging blokes (or dudes) is brilliant. Not that I have anything to compare it to.

Are you shocked? Or, perhaps, you've always known, and just haven't realized. I'm rather flaming, in case you hadn't noticed. I can't advise you on how the Weasleys will react, but at least among Pureblood society, it's considered mostly irrelevant, as long as one does one's duty by the family name. And, of course, doesn't flaunt it about. One must keep one's indiscretions discreet, after all. That said, our opinions aren't the ones you're concerned with, are they? That's a rhetorical question.

In seriousness, though, go talk to him. Kiss him again, maybe. I promise I won't even press you for all the salacious details. You have this chance to figure out at least part of your identity; take it. 

Yours,  
Draco Malfoy

P.S. I hope you'll forgive this less-than-thorough response. This is... a bad time of year for me to be thinking of Hogwarts. I'll come back to that thought in time, but the rest of your letter requires an immediate answer. Yes, I would still write to you if you were gay. I'd be quite the hypocrite if I didn't.

P.P.S. I was absolutely lying, I'm _dying_ to hear the salacious details.


	8. Oh god, Malfoy

September 24th, 1998

Oh god, Malfoy

What have I sent you? I honestly don't remember, as I was rather drunk. I can't believe I told you about the American. Did I really tell you about the American? I did. I must have. Because how could you know that there was the potential for further salicious details? 

You'll have to skip down to the bottom if you want them, because I'm mortified, and need to focus on another aspect of your letter that concerns me. 

Please stop trying to sound American. It's not coming across. But that isn't what concerns me. In fact there are several things that concern me. I'm very concerned. And stalling. 

So you're bent, too. Wow. I am rather shocked. I don't know why, it seems a little obvious now that I'm thinking back on it. But you always struck me as really masculine and really proud. I mean, there's not a wrong way to be bent. It just didn't occur to me that you would be. As my own bentness didn't occur to me. I'm not even 100% positive what color Ginny's eyes are. (We were never really together, but that's a story for another letter, perhaps.) But I know what color yours are. Is it a bent thing? We just pick up on these things subconsciously, while we're struggling to remain alive due to threat of evil wizards, and our subconscious just doesn't inform us until we're drunk and kissing an American on the beach? 

But back to what CONCERNS me. Like... do you like women, at all? You mentioned that it's irrelevant to Purebloods as long as you do your duty by the family name, which I'm putting two and two together here and assuming that means you need to have a baby. That seems so invalidating. I'd hate that. Does it bother you? What are you going to do about that, if you don't like being with women? I realize this is all rather personal and if you don't want to share, that's okay. I'm really just stalling, though generally very interested and curious about your answers. 

The other concerning thing for me was your first P.S. Why is it a bad time of year for you to be thinking of Hogwarts? I've been trying to puzzle that out over the last few days but can't think of why September at Hogwarts would be upsetting. If anything it's the best time of year for Hogwarts memories, for me. 

Thanks for writing to me even though I'm gay. Woo-hoo gay friend times. (Are we friends? Is my obnoxious anxiety over it all coming through clearly?)

I've never told anybody anything so personal. I mean, sure, the world knows I pretty much died and came back to life, and they know the intimate details of my mother's pre-teen love life, and weirdly blame her for turning Snape into who he was (I mean, what WAS that Skeeter article? GROSS) and they know all about my parents' death, and about their relationship with their friends, and how they were betrayed, and on and on. The world knows these details about my life, but those details aren't me, you know? They are things that either happened before I was born, or things I genuinely had no control over or real choice regarding. This is the first time in my life I've had space to figure out anything so personal. And I want you to know I'm not telling you lightly. It means a lot to me that it's you. It's giving me some much needed hope in this world of ours. I mean, if we can let bygones be bygones, anyone can. 

So... salacious details. Hmmmmm. :)

I confronted Andrew the next morning. I was REALLY hung over, I mean Merlin... I've never had such a headache. He barely remembered. I think he passed out on the beach. He still had some black sand in his hair. So anyway, after we had some coffee and sorted ourselves, I invited him to go riding with me. I've gotten good enough that the owner has allowed me to go out on my own with the most docile horses. Andrew used to ride for show back in the United States, so we both set out in the afternoon until we found a waterfall. God, it felt like we were on some other planet. The earth energy was literally pulsing up through my feet, and I felt charged, filled with some kind of electric current, and I kissed him again. I pushed him up against the rock inside this little cavern behind the falls. It was cold and wet but I was humming, my whole body was vibrating with the energy of this place. I literally have never felt so good. 

I'll leave the rest to your sordid imagination. I'm still a virgin, but that's about all I held onto out there that day. I know it's old fashioned, but I take penetration incredibly seriously, and I don't want to do it if I'm not in love, and vice versa. He wanted to, but I wasn't ready, and I wasn't in love. He was an attractive man (he's gone home now) but not my type for love. Is that horrible? Good enough for the physical aspect of things, but that's it. I really don't know if there's someone out there who could fall in love with me and really mean it. I know that sounds weird, and I'm not trying to think extra highly of myself, as you in another life would have called me out on (who am I kidding, you're going to call me out on it in your next letter) but I'm just... there's a lot to understand about me, you know? Once people hear the whole story, I can't imagine anyone wanting to stick around. I'm not easy. I still have night terrors all the time. I hate going out in public. I'm probably allergic to regular fun. To be with me would mean instant notoriety and a loss of privacy and no one will want to sign up for that. 

Well, now I'm just making myself sad. I'm really not so sad, it's just another thing to come to terms with in my weird life. 

I know it rather goes without saying that this needs to be kept on the down-low. And strangely, I trust you. Who would've guessed? 

Thanks for listening, Draco. 

Anxiously awaiting your next letter,

Harry


	9. Oh, Potter.

September 30, 1998 

Oh, Potter.

Yes, you told me about the American. Don't be ridiculous; my American accent is impeccable. Yes, I'm bent, did you really not know? You must have been the only person in our year to have missed it. And yes, it was expected of me that I'd marry a woman—a pureblood witch—and produce an heir. I've always known I would have to, and while I wouldn't say I was excited about the process, I did always like the idea of having a child. To recreate the warm and gentle memories my father made with me when I was small, to teach and guide... 

But it will never come to that. My betrothed's family has, of course, canceled the engagement; my name and fortune are no longer the attractions they once were, and an exile is less than nobody as far as political and social power goes. I would carry on my family name if I could and be grateful, but I doubt if there's a witch in the world who would have me. Talk about instant notoriety. 

As for Hogwarts, it's not September in particular but all of autumn. It's a beautiful season, of course, and I wanted to love it the way my father did, but it's always made me melancholy, as long as I can remember. He used to take me on long walks through the grounds to cheer me up. We'd run through the big drifts of leaves kicking them up in the air, and he'd make them spin around me, and I'd laugh and dance around and try to catch them out of the air until I was exhausted, and he'd pick me up and carry me back to the Manor, and Mama would smile and call us disgraceful and pick a leaf out of his hair, and we'd all sit in the east parlor with a cup of cocoa and he'd read us poetry until he thought I was falling asleep. And that was all lovely, of course, but it was fleeting; as soon as it was over I'd feel sad again, or—or tired, or heavy, or... It's hard to describe. It's like being under a heavy, wet wool blanket, all the time. It's a melancholy season, is all, and I never really come out of it entirely until spring. 

Then first year began, and I'd never been away from my family overnight before, and—I am _just_ drunk enough to tell you this, Potter, which no one has ever known before, but I was so homesick I cried myself to sleep every night from start of term to Christmas holidays. By second year it wasn't quite so bad, but I still missed home terribly, and 

Well. Anyway. What I mean is, this is a difficult time of year for me under the best of circumstances, which my current circumstances are decidedly not. As for why I would prefer to avoid thinking of Hogwarts at this time in particular—you were there that night. You know exactly what shame and guilt I carry. Surely I needn't spell it out. Everything is worse in the fall, that's all. 

You're not obnoxious. Clearly I'm the obnoxious one; stop trying to take away the one thing I'm good at. Are we friends? I suppose I don't know what else you could call it. I certainly would never have talked about these things—homesickness, or the autumn sadness, or frankly being openly queer—with any of my school friends. 

One thing I don't understand—what's horrible about being attracted to someone without being in love with him? Is this a Muggle idea, or—I really can't fathom it enough even to ask questions. It's not like you were faking love in order to seduce him. You weren't taking advantage of him. There's nothing wrong with having sex with someone without a commitment. Is that what you were asking? Did he put that idea in your head, is it an American thing? Sex is nice. It feels good. What's wrong with that? 

Merlin, it's been a long time. Whose cock do I have to suck to suck some cock around here? 

Maybe that's not as funny as I thought. I'm not far enough from home to be less notorious among wizards, and I couldn't pick up a Muggle. I'm not even horny, really—not that I'd turn down a tall dark and handsome, but what I really want is just someone to talk to. Some human contact. This is an awfully big house to be alone in. Even if Mother was here, she's never been the physically affectionate one—and she doesn't want to talk. Not about these kinds of things. I want—

I want my father back. I want my childhood back. I want to be four years old again and carried home, safe. Fuck him. _**Fuck him**_ he fucking destroyed everything he claimed to care about, the family name, the social order, he fucking tore down the world for _nothing_ and now I'm rotting away at eighteen, in exile with no prospects and no future and ~~no friends~~


	10. Dear Potter,

October 1, 1998

Dear Potter, 

I don't entirely remember what I wrote you last night. I remember enough to think an apology is in order. Teach me to open a bottle of wine and a letter from you at the same time. You have this way of totally gutting me—no, I'm sorry, that's wrong. The problem isn't you. I don't know how to react to your sincerity, and I end up thinking too much and drinking too much (Mother's not around to share the bottle) and saying too much. And then somehow it still seems like a good idea to seal the letter and send it. Couldn't I have at least waited till morning?

Anyway. I'll send this one expedited; if it does arrive before last night's letter, perhaps you'd be so kind as to send the other back unread? Perhaps that's asking too much. Transatlantic expedition is hardly a simple business, either, so perhaps it's already arrived by the time you get this.

In any case, I apologize for my outburst. Hopefully you won't have to see it, if this reaches you in time.

Hoping to hear from you soon,  
Draco Malfoy


End file.
